At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baron
threw himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of the
innocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, and
sometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearful
adversary in his dreams.

But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continual
indulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all his
own way.

The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, and
still Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour. Then he
swallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust of
toasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted his
favourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to say
viciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and galloped
furiously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deer
and her fawn from many a brake.

It was evening when he returned: Wilfred had not yet been released.

Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interview
with Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be a
fruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of his
letter, the youth kept his secret.

It was a pity that he did so. Many a sad page yet to be written
might have been saved. But was it unnatural that the poor orphan
should feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet the